


Jennifer Jane

by jpgr1963



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Angst, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-24
Updated: 2014-06-24
Packaged: 2018-02-06 01:49:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1839925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jpgr1963/pseuds/jpgr1963
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The baby arrives and memories rush back.</p><p>An additional chapter to <b>The Contract</b>. Originally posted at McLennonLand on LiveJournal in 2012.</p><p>Disclaimer: This is pure fiction, nothing in this story is real, just all make believe, no intention of libel, no implied ownership, so chillax.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**London, 1986 October**

 

With a gentle tugging suck on Paul’s lower lip, John pulled back from his lover’s whisper-light, reassuring kiss.

“Bloody fucking hell.”  He groaned, his eyes still closed behind his glasses.

“She said it would be a while longer, John.  Takes time, you know… having a baby.”

Paul squeezed John’s fingers; John hadn’t let go of Paul’s hand since the physician’s assistant had delivered a brief update on Jane’s condition and then left them alone to continue waiting helplessly in the private room. Another frustrated sigh filled their little corner of the brightly lit area on the fifth floor of the hospital, as John unexpectedly wrenched his trembling hand out of Paul’s firm, long-fingered grasp.

“Don’t hold my hand.”

“What? You were holding... shit, forget it.”

Paul sat back on the beige vinyl cushion of his chair, crossed his legs, and brought his fingers up to his mouth for a mindless nibble. He was in no mood to battle with his frazzled partner. He turned his finger sideways in his mouth, catching his lower teeth on the edge of his nail; frayed nerves and the buzzing drone of the industrial ceiling lights were driving McCartney batshit mad.  He had to keep some composure… if they both lost their last scraps of self-control to this endless waiting and worrying, they’d be tossed out of the hospital on their famous, queer arses.

“What time is it?”

“There a clock on wall, Paul.”

“Shit, it’s nearly four.  How long have we been here? When did the doctor say she’d be back? Wait, what was her assistant’s name again?”

John bent forward in his chair and buried his head in his hands, carding his fingers roughly through his curls, wishing like hell that Paul would just shut the fuck up.  But he wouldn’t. John had decided over the last hour or so that prattling on about this or that was one of Paul’s most fucking annoying nervous twitches. He much preferred Paul’s sloppy, sexy finger chewing habit.

He finally looked up at the clock. Christ, he needed a cigarette.

 

_30 minutes later…_

 

Quiet except for the occasional impatient grunt, Paul paced back and forth across the grey-green linoleum floor like a caged animal.  It would have been a welcome change to Macca’s verbal diarrhea, John thought, if it weren’t for those damn noisy shoes that Paul had hastily slipped on when they’d rushed out of the house. 

Click, click, click, click … turn… click, click, click…

“Paul, luv, please fucking quit that.  C’mere, sit down.”

“I thought you didn’t want me to talk.”

“I said sit, not talk.”

John pulled Paul into a tight, enveloping embrace and kissed the greying hair above his temple until he felt his lover relax a bit. The quiet was a welcome change; John exhaled deliriously into Paul’s ear… perhaps they could steal a bit of much-needed sleep.

“So, have you decided?”

 _“For fuck’s sake!_  

John rolled his eyes with mock exaggeration, even though Paul couldn’t see his face, and then he pulled him even closer to his chest.

“Decided what, darling?”

“On the name.”

“I though you were picking the name.”

“Oh.  Maybe Jane should pick the name.”

“Yeah.”

  

_A little over an hour later…_

 

“I bloody hate hospitals,” John bent over and bitched in the direction of the floor.  Paul had leaned back in his creaking chair, his head resting against the wall, tired eyes closed.

“It the smells,” Paul whispered, as he reached out and began rubbing John’s back in slow, soothing circles, his heavy lids still closed. “Smells like disinfectant, and death.”

Jerking away from Paul’s gentle touch as if his fingers were suddenly on fire, John coughed into his fist, trying to muffle a sob that he’d been holding in for hours.

“Shit, John. Darling, listen… it’ll be all right.”

“What the hell do you know?”

Paul turned his face to the side, fed up and knackered.

“Nothing. And will you stop being such a prick! I know you’re upset… so am I.”

“You’ve never lost a child, Paul.”

“I have, though.”

His eyes still glued to the sanitized, polished linoleum, John spat out venomous words through his clenched teeth.

“Not a baby that you actually fucking wanted.” 

“That’s it! You mother fucking son of a…” Paul half screamed and half swallowed, marching out the room, shutting the metal door behind him.

“Bitch.”  John sighed, burying his face in his hands again.

It wouldn’t last long; it never did anymore. After a few moments apart, they both extinguished their pointless anger; although separated by a cinderblock hospital wall, both of their hearts fought to find their way back to each other.

Slowly the door to the waiting room opened. Paul walked back in and gently shut the door behind him.  Leaning against the sterile, pale wall, his beautiful, exhausted face was a twist of hurt.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.” John muttered, his eyes glassy and soft underneath wet fans of thick lashes. “This is hard. Hasn’t been this hard in a long fucking time.  I love you, you know.”

Melting into himself, Paul crossed his arms and crinkled in warmth, but said nothing. 

“I’ll always love you, Paul.” 

There was a long pause before Paul finally answered in a whisper.  “I’ll always remember.” 

They were sacred… those words. John’s last few tender words before it all started to truly fall apart, another lifetime ago. They were as sacred as the letters John had engraved on Paul’s lost birthday bracelet.  Lost, but never forgotten. Not by Paul.  On those particularly pitiful months after the break up, when he was drowning in bottles of depression, that promise was one of very few comforts he had left of John.  He’d never forget those words.

“Christ, I need a goddamn fucking cigarette.” 

“There’s a terrace for smoking upstairs, luv. I’ll stay here, in case the doctor shows up.”

“If there’s any word, you’ll come get me?”

“Of course.  Go on then.”

 

~~~

 

**Liverpool, 1963 April 10**

 

“The doctor says she’s in room 27… third door down to the left.  I’ll wait ‘ere for ya. Send her my love then.”  With his long arm, Mal motioned down the hallway to his mate boss, and then plopped his large frame down on a wooden bench with only a folded copy of the Echo for company. 

After knocking lightly, Paul slowly opened the door to the patient room in the maternity ward and peeked in.  There she was on her back on the bed, eyes closed, her bleached hair combed neatly and her make-up recently reapplied no doubt. But John wasn’t there; no fucking sign of his wayward boyfriend, of her negligent husband. He sighed, not surprised but sorely disappointed. He’d been looking for John for hours… fuck, he always seemed to be searching for John. McCartney thought about just shutting the door quietly and leaving without saying a word, but his innate politeness glued his feet to the floor and forced him to say something. Anything. 

John ought to be here, the thoughtless prick. 

“’ello, Cyn. How are ya, luv?”  He whispered towards the bed, quickly hoping like hell that she hadn’t heard him.

“Paul?” 

He took off his broad-brimmed hat and peeled off the fake beard fur with a quick yank.  It was a daft, amateurish disguise, but he hadn’t been recognized by anyone in the hospital yet. 

“Yeah, s’just me. Reckoned I’d stop by to check how yer doin’ and all.”

Struggling a bit, Cynthia pushed herself up to a seated position, readjusted a pillow behind her back, and fiddled with her already coiffed hair. 

“What are you doing here in Liverpool? I thought you all were in London still.”  After groping about for her glasses on the nightstand, she pushed them over the bump of her nose bridge. “Where is John, Paul?”

Paul shrugged and raised his hands in ignorance.  “I dunno. I thought our boy would be here with you.  How’s the baby?”

“He’s fine.”  She paused and then, seemingly out of nowhere, a huge grin brightened her ashen, glum face. “He’s so beautiful, Paul… with his perfect little fingers and his ten tiny toes.”  Cynthia glanced at the clock on the nightstand.  “The nurse should be bringing him for a visit any minute.  You’ll stay, won’t you?”

“They’d have to drag me away kickin’ and screamin’, luv." 

Cyn smiled weakly, and looked down at her puffy finger sausages, still swollen from the trauma of her first childbirth.  Why did it not surprise her that Paul McCartney would meet John’s newborn son before John did?  No, she wasn’t bloody surprised at all.

Soon, after a dizzying whirl of commotion and high-pitched female voices, Paul suddenly found himself cradling the small, swathed bundle in his arms. The infant’s eyes were barely open, drool pooled at the corner of his moist mouth, and his pale skin was flushed. As he lifted the newborn closer to his face, the baby brushed his tiny fragile hand across Paul’s lower lip; a teeny, transluscent fingernail lightly scratched his tender skin. 

“My God, Cyn… he looks just like John.”

“Mum says there’s quite a bit of me, but I don’t see it. I only see John.”

“What’s his name?”

“We haven’t picked one yet. You know John, always putting things off.”

 The small, sterile room became increasingly uncomfortable and awkward, until Paul blurted out into the heavy silence.

“I’ll go find him, Cyn. There’s a few places left that I haven’t checked. The bugger can’t have gone that far. We’ve an important gig at the Cavern in two days.”

“Why didn’t he ring to tell me that he was back in town, Paul?” 

“I dunno, darling.”  Paul shook his head and looked down again at the bundled baby. “But I’ll fix it.”

 As Mal threw the car in gear to drive off from the hospital, he handed Paul his newspaper.  “Brian’s put a splashy advert promotion for the big Cavern show a few pages in, Paul.  Thought you might be interested.”

Paul unfolded the paper while Mal began to navigate midday traffic.  McCartney’s eyes opened wide when he noticed the date on the cover page.

“Shit, I think I know where John’s at, Mal.”

“Yeah?  Where are we headed to then?”

Paul paused and took in a deep breath, turning to look out the passenger side window. Fuck, of course he knew where he’d find John. How the hell could he’ve forgotten what day it was?  
  
People didn’t forget first anniversaries.  Certainly not John. 

“Huyton.”

 ~~~~~


	2. Chapter 2

 

**Liverpool, 1963 April 10**

Weaving his way passed the crosses and grave markers, some of them pristine and adorned with bouquets of flowers, others aged and lilting to one side, Paul hurried through the Huyton cemetery faster than he should have, given that it was a solemn and sad place and all. He’d only been here once before, and now his steps were guided only by a few fuzzy memories from that earlier visit.  

He stopped and looked around.  “Where the hell is it again?”

He’d been here that one time with John and George. No one fucking cared that Pete never showed that day. It had been soon after their return from Hamburg, after John had pummeled him sore and satiated on the grotty cot in Stu’s art studio, after they then went on to record their first record. My fucking Bonnie! Shit, that felt like ten years ago. Paul felt a chill run up his spine; he pulled his striped scarf more tightly around his neck, in spite of the warmer April breezes.

Course, Paul and his mates all knew that Stu wasn’t here in this spooky suburban graveyard. Perhaps his dead body was here, rotting in a coffin under the ground, but not him. Stuart’s spirit, if such things even existed, had stayed back in Germany with Astrid. But all three lads came here anyway… it was how Jim and Louise and even Mimi had tried to raise them: polite and well-behaved boys, at least when it came to shit like paying proper respects to your suddenly dead and buried former band mate. 

A sort of best mate, Paul hissed with resignation. They’d shared everything with Stu; he had stomped his feet and sweated buckets on those ratty wooden stages for hours on end with the rest of them.  He’d washed up in the public lav and froze under wafer-thin bed covers… for a while, anyroad, until Astrid’s mum took him into her home. Christ, at least Stu had  _tried_  to be a genuine rocker, McCartney reckoned. But it just wasn’t in the stars, as John might have said, had Lennon ever had a clear and rational thought about the whole absurd situation.  Even back then, Sutcliffe was John’s past, not his future… a talented painter with real promise, but not a fucking bass player. And certainly not a partner. Or a soul mate. Stu was a lot of different things to John, important things, but he wasn’t Paul. 

With a long exhale, Paul finally decided on a direction and scooted his arse passed the forgotten broken gravestone of another Mr. Wilson or Wallace or someone or other. After rounding a thick clump of trees, Paul froze in his tracks when he saw him a few rows up, squatting down and facing Stu’s headstone. 

Smoothed maple brown hair curling in rebellion over his collar. 

The battered, black leather jacket that he almost never wore any more. 

Languid clouds of cigarette smoke floating the air. 

Paul decided against hollering to announce his presence. Instead, he walked quietly through the stone markers, and then crouched down next to John’s side, balancing on the balls of his feet, and said nothing. Without more than the briefest glance, Paul reached over and grabbed the lit fag out from between John’s lips, inhaled and then handed it back.

They were both quiet for a bit, until John murmured, “Can’t shake you then, can I?”

“Nope. Reckon you can’t, partner.”  Paul slurred, in his sorry imitation of a full-blown John Wayne drawl. And then he turned and smiled and winked, in a most McCartney way. And John couldn’t breathe for a second or five. After a few more minutes of easy silence, John whispered, as he pushed his heavy glasses up the bridge of his nose while smoke poured out of his nostrils, “S’been a year since Stu died. A fucking entire year.”

Paul pulled out his own pack of smokes from his jacket pocket, lit a match and wrapped his lips around the filter, inhaling as he mumbled, “You’ll always miss him. Nothing will ever change that, ya know.” 

As if the air had been suddenly knocked out of him, John dropped down on the grass, pulling his knees up to his chest. Marveling at how young and vulnerable he looked, all curled up in a ball in front of Stu’s grave, Paul reached over and began rubbing small circles over the leather jacket that hugged John’s back and shoulders. John turned away and closed his eyes, resting his cheek on his knees. After a few somber minutes had passed, he turned back and mumbled, “I can’t do this, Paul.”

Paul blinked slowly and then looked at him, his hooded eyes filled with complete adoration and more seriousness than John had seen in a while. 

“Yes, you  _can_  do this.  You will.  You have a son, son.” Paul paused for a moment, before finishing. “John, he’s beautiful.”

“Ya’ve seen him then?”

“Yeah, I popped by the hospital for a quick visit. He’s all fresh and pink, with ten little fingers and the tiniest wee toes that I’ve ever seen. He looks just like you, the poor sprog.”

As images of a miniature version of himself flooded his brain, John’s face slowly melted into a blinding thousand-watt smile… a smile so bright and genuinely filled with amazement that it took Paul’s breath away. But, like the fleeting light of a blazing comet, it didn’t last long. Nodding towards the tombstone, John’s smile faded as he sighed. “S’all fucked, isn’t it? Cyn gets pregnant and I’m shackled with a wife and a kid. Stu? Well, the artsy twit fucking finds the love of his life, and now he’s dead. He was gonna marry her, make it real and all. Came to nothing in the end though, did it?” 

“I s’ppose that love isn’t enough sometimes.” Paul whispered, his eyes glued to the name carved at the top of the dark grey granite slab. They stayed quiet, both young minds mulling over the weight of Paul’s words.

Paul finally broke the silence. “S’only natural to miss him. He was your best mate after all.”

John’s back stiffened as his head jerked back to stare at Paul, his lips parted in shock.

“What the fuck did you just say?”

“Ya heard me, John.”

“I don’t need your fucking daft insecurities right now, McCartney!”

“S’not that.  It’s just… it’s reality, isn’t it? Like your new baby is reality. Can’t hide from it, Johnny. We can try to hide some things, perhaps even the most important things… but not that your college mate has been dead and buried for a year and that you’re a father now. S’reality.”

John swallowed, and stared at Paul’s perfect profile, watching the smoke roll out off his full bottom lip.  He reached his left hand up, and turned Paul by the chin to face him. He leaned in close enough for Paul to feel his warm smoky breath dance across his skin.

Paul’s gut twisted in a momentary battle of reason and desire. They were out in public; they had to be even more careful now that this hormonal hysteria had Britain by its fucking goolies. The faces of the four Liverpudlian lads were everywhere.  Brian had made sure of it. After another perfunctory gig at the old Cavern, it would be back to London for more filming for another television program. It was dizzying and surreal. 

It was their dream. 

“He wasn’t me best mate.” John reassured softly, and then quickly kissed that full lower lip, skimming his tongue over the plump curves, before pulling back.  

Closing his eyes and gnawing at his lip, Paul nodded and then turned back to stare at the tombstone. 

“Yeah, I know. Everyone’s well aware that Shotton’s yer first and closest mate. Primary school chums that go way back.” He noted, in a serious and disappointed tone.

Rolling his eyes, John was about to correct him again with another sweet kiss, when he noticed that Paul’s shoulders were shaking ever so slightly as the boy tried to suppress his giggles. And although his face was serenely placid, one arched eyebrow twitched impishly.  “You cagey fucker,” Lennon snarled as he forcefully shoved Paul over on to the damp, grassy ground. Paul rolled onto his back, laughing hard and holding both palms up in surrender. He knew many devious tricks to pull John out of his increasingly frequent sour moods. As he lay there on his back, McCartney’s hazel eyes sparkled with affection and mischief. His short, unbuttoned coat fell open, revealing a light blue dress shirt tucked into a tight pair of black trousers. Freshly mowed grass clippings were stuck at random spots in Paul’s shiny, dark hair. 

Wearing a predator’s glare and a sexy smirk, John crawled over on his knees and bent down, hovering above Paul’s body, balancing himself on his knuckles. “I should school your wicked arse right here, in the bloody Huyton cemetery,” he growled under his breath as he brushed his thighs against Paul’s legs. Slowly, he lowered his hips and began rocking his hard cock back and forth against Paul’s trousered prick, as he nibbled and licked his way up the length of Paul’s sensitive neck. 

“You want me.” John growled.

Tilting his head back for better access, McCartney lifted his pelvis up to meet John’s grinding and moaned, “Mmm… shit, yes. School me.” Paul fucking loved fucking outdoors, in the grass, with rays of sunshine and birds singing and other pansy nonsense. But it was mostly the thrill of getting caught that drove his dick bloody throbbing mad.

_“For shit’s sake, Lennon, not in front of me grave!” Stu shook his head and then covered his face with his hands, peeking out between splayed fingers._

“Or, better yet, perhaps I’ll just…” John teased, putting his forefinger up to his lips.

With a grunt, Paul lifted his head and glanced up. He grimaced when he recognized the evil glint in John’s narrowed eyes.

“You… wouldn’t.”

Paul didn’t have a chance to shield himself or wiggle away before John pinned him down and attacked with all ten fingers, grabbing and squeezing everywhere he could reach, cackling like a madman. His ticklish pinches elicited hilariously birdish shrieks from his boyfriend. “Stop!  Fucking stop, John… I’m not kiddin’…”

“Apologize.”

“For what?”  Paul blurted out between squeals.

“For being you, ya nerk. I planned on being a poor, wretched sod wallowing in me sorrows by me dead mate’s grave… alone,” John snickered as he sat up, pressing and rotating his bum against Paul’s pulsing groin, as his right hand nonchalantly combed back his auburn bangs. After several more minutes of dry humping and tongue kissing and groaning lusty curses into Paul’s ear, John suddenly stopped his crushing gyrations when he looked over the brim of his crooked specs and spotted the fuzzy silhouette of a person a dozen yards or so off in the distance. 

“What the fuck!  Don’t quit now!  Johnny, please…” Paul cried, as arched his back and threw his furry forearm over his eyes. His mouth was open and his brow was twisted in knots of frustration. He didn’t care if he exploded in his new trousers; he needed the exquisite friction of John’s rock hard heat pressing and grinding against him. His full balls were burning with ache, clenched up to his body, close and tight. He needed release.

“Shit. We gotta go, luv.”

“Wha…? No!”

“Hey, you delinquents over there! This isn’t the place for some jigger scuffle! Clear off you lot or I’ll ring the authorities!” The ornery, hunched groundskeeper barked, marching his burly frame through the tombstones and carrying a sharp heavy rake. 

John sprang up, lifting Paul to his feet with a hard tug on his arm.  They trotted off toward the exit, quickly putting a good space of distance between themselves and the armed gardener. It was only when they were securely out of sight that both men relaxed, slowed down and began sniggering and snorting. John reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out a small flask of whiskey. “Cheers, darling!” He tossed his head back, bristling at the warm rush, and handed the drink to his lover. 

Lover?  They weren’t lovers, Paul mused, biting the inside of his cheek before he took a healthy slurp. John had a wife, and now he had a newborn son. They couldn’t be together anymore, not the way it used to be. All they had now were secret, hurried trysts in hotel cupboards and quick fucks in loos or any other opportune place they happened to stumble upon. Like deserted suburban cemeteries.  Almost deserted, Paul quickly corrected himself. Shit, if he was honest with himself, he’d admit that it…  _them_ … had never been a fucking possibility from the start. It wasn’t reality.

John was suddenly confused and a tad annoyed when saw the twinge of hurt in Paul’s heavy, brooding eyes.

“Paul.”

“S’nothin’.”

“What’s nothing?”  John asked, though he already knew the answer.

“I was just thinking about what it was like, before… ya know, in the past. Everything keeps fuckin’ changing, doesn’t it?” Paul sighed, biting his bottom lip. “All right, then… s’time to go to the hospital, Lennon. Your son is waiting. Ya can refuse to admit it to yerself, but he’s still there, waitin’ for his gorgeous dad to show his ugly gob.” 

“No. Not today.”

“John?”

“Listen, Paul… Brian made plans for me to come back to the Poole in a few days and visit with them.  That’ll give Cynthia and the baby some more time to rest and recover.  Epstein’s arranged everything. It’s for the best, Paul. You’ll see. For now, it’s just you and me, beautiful boy. C’mon, Eppy gave me the keys to his old flat.” 

John took a hold of Paul’s hand and led him around to the side of a small storage building near the entrance gate of the graveyard. He pushed Paul up against the faded wooden wall and began whispering seductively between a rapid barrage of sloppy love bites and tender kisses.

“There’ll be candles… and wine… and flowers… and long hot baths. All that romantic crap… that gets your naughty lad bits… all hot and tingly.” John waggled his eyebrows and leered. “And, Eppy’s got all sorts of dear padded furniture to bend you over and fuck you into.” 

“So Brian’s fixed it for you to meet your new baby, a child that no one is supposed to know exists, when the great and mighty Epstein can fit a secret hospital visit into his grand schedule?  He’s got it all figured out, doesn’t he?” Paul huffed.

“Yes, he does. He’s brilliant, that one. He’s ordered the best care for Cyn and the baby until I’m ready to face it… them. And he’s asked me to go on holiday with him afterwards, to fucking Spain of all places. Barmy queer.”  John dove in again, focusing his attention on Paul’s squishy ear lobe.

“Spain? I’m surprised he didn’t suggest gay Paris.”  Paul’s snarky retort was leaking with bitterness. “You’re not actually fucking going, are you?”

“Don’t be a jealous bird, luv. It makes me prick soft. And who the hell knows? A trip to Spain with the bum chum queen might be educational. Yer always telling me to broaden me outlook, right?”

Paul’s eyes shot wide open as he grabbed the guitarist by his leather jacket. “Christ, John. Don’t joke about that! He fuckin’  _fancies_  you.”  

John laughed at the worried expression consuming his mate’s face. He snatched the flask back and swallowed another gulp of drink, before lowering his voice to a purr and rubbing his nose against Paul’s temple. 

“I’m flattered, darling, but I sussed out the poofter a long fuckin’ time ago, Macca.”  John dropped his honey voice even lower, as he palmed Paul’s hard on and then cupped the lad’s heavy sack through his trousers, squeezing gently. “You should know better than anyone that John fucking Lennon only sucks one particular cock… a gorgeous throbber that’s attached to one very special black-haired, baby-faced bassist. Now, let’s go to the flat and take care of these beautiful jewels of yours, tiger.”

John stepped back and watched the conflicting emotions wash over Paul’s face. It was wrong not to call on Cyn and the new baby while they were in town for this gig, however brief the visit.  Paul had promised Cyn, hadn’t he?  Then again, he’d only promised to find John, not to bring him back to the hospital. Course, he’d also said that he would fix things, and right now his blue balls were screaming for some serious fixing.

Fuck. Could he and John really have twenty-four hours of privacy together, just the two of them, with food and drink and bath bubbles and no interruptions?  Twenty-four hours of warm tongues and lubed fingers and dripping cocks and no rushing any of it? A whole day’s worth of fucking and sucking and kipping all tangled up in sweaty, cum-soaked sheets until neither man could stand up, let alone walk straight. Shit, they hadn’t enjoyed such exhausting sexual bliss since those lazy days spent at Gambier Terrace. 

And sod it all if fucking Brian “I’m the manager” Epstein hadn’t found the nads to invite John…  _his_  John… to Spain for some queer perverted tango or something. Paul snorted sarcastically as he rubbed his temples to ease the oncoming headache. Bloody hell. 

“Well then, Macca, maternity ward or fuck flat?  What’s it gonna be, darling.”  John crossed his arms and smirked, relishing Paul’s predicament.

_“It’s another test.”_  The twenty-year old suddenly realized. 

After raking his fingers through his hair, Paul pushed passed him for the exit, snarling. “Fuck you, Lennon. C’mon, now!” 

“Paul!”  John shouted, quickly catching up to march alongside his determined partner. Without warning, Paul stopped and turned, one eyebrow arched impossibly high.

“I’ve just got one thing to say to you, Lennon… you’d better have a fucking gallon of lube concealed about yer person.” 

~~~~~~

  
**London, 1986 October**

The smokers’ terrace was located up on the ninth floor of the hospital. John pushed open the heavy glass-paneled door and stepped out on to the sunny balcony, immediately pissed off that he hadn’t brought a heavier coat.  Fuck, it was colder than a witch’s tit.  The sun had started to peek over the horizon, but its heat hadn’t yet warmed the crisp and windy October morning air. After walking over to the parapet wall to see the view, Lennon fumbled around in his jacket pockets until he found his slightly crushed pack of smokes.  With trembling fingers, he pulled out a crumpled fag, straightened it and then lit it, taking a long but less than satisfying drag. Paul had convinced him, well more like forced him, to switch to these bloody ‘light’ cigarettes. McCartney claimed ‘that studies showed that they were healthier and safer’ or some other marketing horseshit; smoking these things turned out to be as rewarding as blowing a limp cock wrapped in a rubber. Shit, even the most talented whore couldn’t suck any nicotine out of these disgusting twigs. 

“Bloody worthless!” He grumbled, tossing the smoldering stick to the concrete floor in disgust.

“Would you care for one of mine? They’re Marlboros… real ones.”  A soft woman’s voice rang out from somewhere behind him. He turned around and spotted her by the side of a ventilation tower.  She was average height and wrapped up in a long winter coat, her brown hair escaping the close fitting hood and blowing about in the swirling breeze. She couldn’t have been more than 30, John guessed. Christ, her delicate features and gentle demeanor suggested she might be even younger than that. She walked a few steps closer, as if she were being deliberately careful about getting too close and scaring him off.  But she didn’t seem intimidated or on the brink of fan girl hysteria.  She was just a bit cautious, and so fucking familiar.  John was certain that he’d seen her face before.  Perhaps she worked down in the maternity ward.

“Yes, please!  You’re a right lifesaver, darling.  I’m dying for a real smoke and I can’t stand these fake fags that my…  _shit, what was he supposed to call him_ … that my…  _ah, fuck it_ … that my partner wants me to switch over to for my supposed health.”

She giggled, in a sweetly endearing but motherly way, and offered out the hard red-colored pack.  “My husband wants me to stop smoking too.  But I just can’t quit for good, you know.  My job’s so awfully stressful some days.”

John gingerly pulled one precious Marlboro from the pack, though he would have shoved five of them in his mouth if he could have. She lit the tip with her lighter, and he immediately inhaled like a drowning man. 

“Fuuuuck, that’s good. Sorry for the cursing, darling, but I haven’t had a real cigarette in bleeding ages. By the way, I’m John.”

“It’s lovely to meet you, John.  I’m Patricia. It’s nice knowing there’s someone else with a loving, over-protective boyfriend.”

John raised an eyebrow.  Fuck, was it that obvious that he was queer?  Sure, he and Paul had come out publicly in that Rolling Stone cover piece a while back, but still? She certainly didn’t seem to recognize him.  Too young or not a music fan or both, John figured.  It must be something else that made her so boldly sure that he was gay… was it his voice, his clothes? Shit. 

“Hello, Miss Patricia. So what’s this stressful job of yours, luv?” 

“I’m a nurse in the neo-natal intensive care unit… you know, where the sickest babies are cared for around the clock.”

“Ah, I knew that you looked familiar. Paul and I have spent the entire night in the waiting room of the maternity ward.  Just popped up here for a quick smoke before I head back down.”

“So, you’re having a baby with your boyfriend, Paul?” 

“Uh, yes.” John hesitated briefly before finishing.  “It’s a complicated situation, but a friend of ours is here giving birth to my…  _our_  baby. She’s gone into labor too early and we think there’s some problem. We keep asking questions, but the doctors won’t tell us anything.”

“What’s the mother’s name?  Maybe I have information that I can share.”

“Jane Asher… well, I think its Asher.  I don’t think she uses her husband’s last name.”

“Hmm, that doesn’t ring a bell, I’m afraid. Actually, it’s a good sign because it means your baby is not in the ICU or I would know. I’m sure everything is fine. Babies are very resilient, just like true love.”

“I hope you’re right, Patricia.”

The brunette nurse offered another cigarette, which John greedily snatched up with a smile. He felt so comfortable with this strange girl, like he was spending time chatting with an old friend or something.  He couldn’t put his finger on it, but a warm, relaxed serenity blanketed his whole body.  He wasn’t cold or nervous anymore either.  After he exhaled his first pull of smoke, he continued. 

“You see, this baby is likely our last chance to have a child of our own, together.  We’ve several wonderful kids from previous marriages, but never one together. This baby is a special miracle.”

“I understand very well. Miracles happen every day around here. Have you and your partner… Paul, right? Have you been together for a long time then?”

“Yes, a very long time. Probably hundreds of lifetimes, if you believe in soul mates and that sort of thing.”

“I do.  Do you, John?”

“Yeah, I’m a bit of a dreamer, you could say. I believe in anything magical or mystical or weird. Odd shit like ghosts and supernatural crap appeals to me. S’comforting somehow, to think that there’s more than just  _this_ , you know.”  John waved his arms about, before taking another deep, satisfying drag.

“Is Paul a dreamer as well?”

“No, not really.  He’s more pragmatic.  A realist.” 

“Hmm… so he’s like his mother.”  Patricia chuckled softly, looking away.

“Excuse me? How do you know Paul or his mother?”

“I knew them both in another lifetime, John. I think I can be blunt with you, yes?  You have sight, John Lennon... the gift. You must know that by now.”

“You know who I am?”

“Yes, of course I do.  I’ve been watching you and Paul for decades. You two haven’t made it very easy.  You, young man, have caused that poor woman to pull out clumps of her hair on more than one occasion. Fortunately, for all of us, it always grows back.” Patricia let out a warm, hearty laugh. 

“What woman?”

“Your mother, Julia.  She’s always so worried for you. Bit melodramatic about it all, if you ask me. “Mary,” she’s always saying whenever we get together for tea, “What am I to do with that impudent rascal son of mine!” But in her heart, she knows.  We all know. We’ve always known. Everything will be fine. Trust your heart, John. Trust Paul.”

Patricia started to fade, just the way Stuart always faded at the end of one of those brief spooky visits that he’d made over the years.

“I thought you said that your name was Patricia?”

“It’s my middle name. Take care of Paul… he’s  _my_  very special baby. Trust your heart.  And Paul’s right, you know. Stop smoking. Before all is said and done in this life, my beautiful boy will be devastated far too many times because of that evil disease. And you  _will_ have a beautiful, healthy baby with Paul. Her name is Jennifer and she’s waiting to meet you. Goodbye, John.”  

Patricia walked forward and kissed John tenderly on the cheek before disappearing into the air. 

John looked around in vain, before slowly turning to face the rising sun. It felt warm on his face, as a soothing calm embraced his soul. He was so lost in the bliss that he didn’t flinch in the slightest when two arms wrapped around his waist from behind.

“Hey. You all right up here?”

“Yeah. It’s a beautiful sunrise, Macca.” 

“That it is. John, we have news.  The baby’s here, and everything’s fine.”

John grabbed both of Paul’s hands and pulled him in tighter, leaning back against his left shoulder and sighing quietly.

“They’re moving Jane and our baby to the recovery rooms, John. It all went smashing, despite the pre-term labor issues. The doctor says we’ll be able to visit them soon. We have a healthy baby girl, luv.”

John smiled as he hummed, his eyes closed in relief and joy.  Finally he turned around and kissed Paul hard and long on the mouth, with more raw passion than Paul had felt in a while. Finally John broke the kiss, and grinned his trademark thousand watt smile.  He held Paul’s face between his hands as he spoke.

“Our daughter’s name is Jennifer.”

“Well, glad to see that I’ve some say in all this.”  Paul quipped, smirking. “So why Jennifer? Where did you come up with that name?”

“A very special spirit told me.”

“Seeing ghosts again, are you now? I hope this one wasn’t visiting as a chain-smoking, filthy-mouthed old sheepdog.”

“No. Not Stuart this time. It was your guardian angel, Paul. Ya know, as far as I can figure, there’s a whole fucking stadium full of angels watching over us.”

“For some reason, Johnny, that doesn’t surprise me. God knows we need all the help we can get, right? Guess you and me are sort of special.”

“Reckon we are, partner.”  John drawled like an old movie cowboy and winked, as they walked with their arms around each other towards the terrace door. 

 

THE END 


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